Page 61 of Vicious Intentions
The room suddenly feels smaller, the air denser, as if the walls themselves were pressing in on me.
This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. I was going to strip Romano of his crown and kingdom. Expose him for the fraud he is. A boss so impotent that his wife had to submit herself to hisconsigliereand his enforcer just to give Romano children. I wasgoing to tear apart the illusion he created of being untouchable and let the Outfit devour itself. But that plan dies right here.
Yes, his other four children aren’t his. The report confirms that much. But their illegitimacy means nothing to me. Not in the way I need it to.
It was always Jude and Marcello I needed to delegitimize. Without them, Vincent Romano would have been finished. ACapo dei Capiwith no true bloodline means that the throne is left without a rightful successor, plunging the Outfit into utter chaos. The scandal alone would have forced the syndicate to strip Romano of his title and turn inward, scrambling for stability, tearing itself apart in the process. And I would have been right there to pour gasoline on the fire, reclaiming New York while they were too busy devouring themselves to stop me.
But now? Now I have nothing. Jude and Marcello Romano still stand. Both are still viable options as Vincent’s successors.
Porca miseria!
I slam my clenched fist onto the desk, staring at the screen as something dark coils tighter in my chest. Rage overpowering the urgent need for recalculation. The cold understanding that this can’t be the end. It can only be a setback. A huge fucking setback.
The truth would still humiliate Romano. Ruin his wife’s reputation as well as his. It would poison his legacy with whispers and rumors. Though by comparison to my original plan, it feels tame. Embarrassment isn’t enough. Scandal doesn’t topple empires. True power always survives such things. And Vincent Romano’s power, it seems, has deeper roots than I would have liked.
I get up and begin to pace the room, the rage inside me starting to take over rational thought. I pinch the bridge of my nose as I try to cool my temper, enough for me to think clearly.
Plans don’t die. They evolve. And if Romano’s children are the pillar holding his empire upright, then sooner or later, I’llmake sure that pillar cracks. I’ll find a way. I will find a way to ruin him, once and for all. To ruin all of them.
Knowing I won’t have the answer tonight, I leave the office without shutting the laptop. I can’t stand looking at that email for a second longer. I need to move, burn off this anger before it drives me insane.
I walk down the stairs and head toward the kitchen to fix myself a stiff drink. I grab a bottle of vodka from the fridge and fill a rock glass with ice. I pour the clear liquid, fill the glass halfway, and down it all in one go. I pour another, the clink of ice against crystal too loud in the quiet of my house. And then I see it—Raffaele’s phone, abandoned on the counter. The screen lights up before I can turn away, an incoming text from none other than Annamaria Romano.
My jaw clenches so hard I’m half-convinced my back molars might crack. Of all the times Romano’s daughter could choose to text my brother, it had to be now. Right when I’m on the brink. No. That’s not right. She isn’t Vincent Romano’s daughter. She’s Dominic Mancini’s, his head enforcer. Though why that distinction matters right now is of little solace.
Still simmering from the report upstairs, I pick up the phone and begin to scroll. The few texts I see from my brother make my nostrils flare in disgust. Raffaele sounds like a lovesick fool. However, disgust soon gives way to something uglier as I keep reading.
He went to Chicago. Raffaele went to Chicago. Not once, but twice. Behind my back.
The realization hits like a blade sliding between my ribs. He crossed state lines to enter enemy territory willingly. Walked straight into Outfit ground, knowing damn well that death would’ve been the only merciful outcome he could have hoped for if he’d been caught. But death wouldn’t come to him so easily.Not before torture. Not before every scrap of information he knows was pulled from him, piece by piece.
Idiota.
My grip tightens around the phone until my knuckles crack. This isn’t just disobedience. It’s betrayal. Careless, reckless betrayal that puts all of us at risk.
A part of me wants to storm upstairs, kick his bedroom door in, and give him a piece of my mind. But I stop myself from moving a muscle. If Raffaele left his precious phone sitting unattended on the kitchen counter, that can only mean one thing—he brought someone home with him tonight.
For all his apologies to Annamaria, for all his carefully chosen words and wounded sincerity, whatever he claims to feel for the girl can’t run that deep if he’s still willing to fuck anything with legs.
One thing is clear—Raffaele needs to know that his actions have consequences.
With the drink in one hand and Raffaele’s phone in the other, I head back upstairs and sit down at my desk.
Raffaele no longer has the privilege of privacy. He cannot be trusted with it. Tomorrow, I will make it clear that every privilege he had before tonight is now moot, starting with his preferred way of communication. He will no longer have access to a phone, save for the one I’ll issue him for business purposes only. Even that will be monitored daily to ensure there is no further contact with the Romano girl.
Whatever softness my brother thinks he’s entitled to, whatever fantasy he’s been indulging in, it ends tonight.
Some lines exist for a reason. And Raffaele has just crossed one.
I admit there was a time where I believed that this friendship of theirs could be useful to me, but now I see the error in myjudgement. If I continue to turn a blind eye to this, Raffaele will end up dead.
As for the Romano girl, a single text should be enough to end this blasphemous friendship.
From the few messages I’ve read, it’s clear Raffaele screwed up during his last visit. Whatever happened between them left a mark. That’s all the information I need.
I take another swig of my drink and begin to type, choosing my words carefully. I shape the message to sound like my brother. Immature, shallow, and inconsiderate. Something she’ll believe came from him, that will silence her for good.
Me: You overanalyze everything, and honestly, it’s kind of sad.
